before we grow up
by but seriously
Summary: -"Derek Harrington turns the card so it reads 'CLOSE', but I don't feel as lonely as before." Follow up to What's in a Name? and Let's Talk Coffee. Oneshot. CC, CD, CP friendship. Claire-centric.


**Hey you cool kids! This is a follow up to What's in a Name? and Let's Talk Coffee because I just loved writing those so much, I decided What the hell? It's about time I wrote something new anyway. So you should prolly read those two first, otherwise you just won't be able to understand some of the shiz in here.**

**Thanks so much to Juin and Syd, I could NOT have finished this without you. BAM SHIRTLESS!**

**

* * *

**

**Before We Grow Up**

_by hammy_

* * *

_I'm still alive. That much is true  
I've never lied, well, I guess I've told a few.  
There's nothing to see because I brought nothing to show.  
The conversation got too deep, I shrug and tell you I don't know_  
"Softer to Me", Relient K

* * *

**Entry 1

* * *

  
**

_Dear Diary,_

I feel that the chances of you ruining my life grow about five percent with every letter, every word and every sentence I pen down in you, not only because I have no choice but to be disastrously honest, but because, well, we'll get to that later. Not only will my brother find this one day as I am caught offguard, he will also Xerox about a hundred copies and hand it out to his friends (who in turn will Xerox more copies and hand it out to _their _friends who in turn will Xerox more copies and... you get this twisted circle of life), they will laugh at me and spread the love around even more.

No, not because I'm popular, or pretty, or fortunate (or unfortunate, considering the fact that they both turned out to be douches) enough to have dated both Cam Fisher _and _Derek Harrington. But not at the same time. Which is a shame, I realize now, since that would have been totally bangin'.

No, the kind, thoughtful people of Westchester-Briarwood Academy wish to spread my diary around because I am certifiably, no-going-around-it insane.

But maybe it's just too much of wishful thinking that they even _think _ about me as soon as the final bell rings, as I don't think I'm that much known, except for two centimeters of scribble-space in last year's yearbook where a girl threatened my death in exchange for a Fisher-Lyons break up.

So maybe they're not threatening to ruin what little social status I have. Maybe they're all really asleep in their nice king-sized beds at this hour of night, or really, really early morning, unlike me. Because only insane people stay up this late to write in diaries they publicly declare to hate. And by publicly declare, I mean complain very loudly in the silence of our lonely corner of the cafeteria to my one and only friend, Layne Abeley.

Ms. Kinkle, please don't sign me up for counseling after you finish reading this. Perhaps you should sign _yourself_ up, seeing as only crazy-ass teachers like yourself choose to waste your students' time and energy by assigning diaries. Look at Mrs. Lammington. She hardly ever gives out schoolwork.

Okay, she's the school janitor. But still.

--

_Dear Claire, I really don't appreciate the usage of 'douche' in here, and I really don't see your need to compare my teaching abilities to the school janitor. I suggest you start taking this more seriously, as remember: You are being graded._

_Ms Kinkle_

* * *

** Entry 2

* * *

  
**

_Dear Diary_,

Today I bumped into Derek on the way back home from school. It seemed like he had somewhere nice to go. For once, his hair was combed and he even bothered to wear a tie. Our eyes locked for what seemed like a quarter of a century before I cleared my throat and said, like any other sensible, shy, stuttering blonde would,

"Y-your dog died, right?"

Derek fused his light eyebrows together and nodded hesitantly. "Yeah..." Then his eyes turned to concern. "Are you okay, Claire?"

And I nodded, because I'm absolutely _fine_. I've been through this before. I should be used to bumping into my exes in the middle of crowded streets by now. Okay, so maybe most exes don't make you freeze up so bad you lose the ability to talk, because most exes don't own a chain of cafes-slash-candy stores at the age of seventeen (namely, Derek). And most exes don't have the facial proportions of a Roman God (namely, _Cam Fisher_. Since I'm no longer his girl of the week—or his girl of two years—I am reduced to calling him by his full name now).

But this breakup felt awkward. It had none of the coldness Cam Fisher and I had, since Derek and I were together for... eleven months, tops? I fiddled with my mittens and looked away, because Derek's determined to search my soul with his caramel eyes, and I just don't feel like tearing up and breaking down in front of him after an ego-bruising day at school.

Once again, nobody noticed me. And once again, I'm bothered by the fact that I care way too much. Because for once, I want to be known as Claire Lyons, the girl who can write mean poetry when required, or just Claire; the friendly girl everyone finds cool.

But instead I'm either known as a) That girl who used to date Cam Fisher, b) That girl who used to date Derek Harrington, or the much loved c) Claire _who_? Oh, you mean Claire _Danes_? SHE GOES TO OUR SCHOOL!?!? EHMAGAWD!!!!.

Instead, I scuff the toe of my Uggs against the sidewalk and meddle with the hem of my shirt. "I'm fine, absolutely fine." Then I smile at his general direction and walk away, from him, from his formalwear, from what used to be ClaireandDerek.

* * *

** Entry 3

* * *

  
**

_Dear Diary,_

I might have accepted the fact that I'm resigned to write in you everyday, _every single time_ something new pops up in the messed up muddle in my mind, but you will still remain in the very back of my locker, jammed between Algebra II and _Animal Farm_, wedged underneath my Juicy purse and stuffed underneath my bright, happy yellow just-in-case sweater, as my mother is the just-in-case type and she thinks I might need a change of clothes _just in case _I a) decide what I was wearing was fashion suicide and decide to ditch the classic jeans and t-shirt combo for a blindingly neon sweater, b) I by accident, spill chocolate milk on myself even though I haven't drank anything out of a carton since 2nd grade, or as she is constantly reminding me, c) because the sweater is my lucky sweater and I need to wear it for luck.

Which I don't. I have plenty of luck as it is, straight from my yellow locks of hair. Not to say that my hair is moisturized enough to contend Massie Block's, since even after hours of deep-conditioning and running it with lemons, it still resembles just, boiled spaghetti: Heavy, pale, and _completely _unpredictable. (You never know with San Remo pasta.)

Today I watched as Massie Block threw her hair over her shoulder, threw her bag to her friends (which made them stumble into Gigantic Gertrude who almost knocked down a boy with crutches) and threw her arms around the shoulders of Cam Fisher, and it wasn't until I started grabbing for a pen and flipping your pages to oblivion that I, after almost a year of parting from being part of ClaireandCam, finally feel the sting.

--

_I really think you should start writing with more... substance. I need to see your true thoughts, Claire. Not a shallow comparisons and your lack of hair care knowledge._

_Ms Kinkle_

_P.S. Bumble and Bumble is good for adding shine and volume to the hair, I have heard._

* * *

** Entry 4

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

Derek Harrington hangs up the sign that says 'Open, Swing By Anytime!' on the glass door of his café.

Cam Fisher glances at me from across a crowded cafeteria, and for a split second, I see flashes of Derek sending me his Harrington Smile as he pours me my usual Caramel Macchiato. I close my eyes and visions of Cam Fisher pulling my earphones out of my ears and asking me what's wrong takes over my mind.

Both unofficial, yet invitations still, to close this space between us and spill my heart out.

But then Massie flutters her fingers in Cam's direction and my woeful face is lost among the other adoring faces in his mind. I look up and it starts raining, and I decide I really do have to make a run for school.

I pick up my bag and start running.

**

* * *

Entry 5

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

"Um, do you want one?"

Pen poised on an empty page, I frown at the pack of Twizzlers being waved in my face and look up, and _oh _it's Chris Plovert with the Crutches, the one who nearly got knocked over by Gigantic Gertrude the other day. I smile and shake my head, because I'm more of a gummies sort of girl.

Doubtfully, Chris pockets the candy and awkwardly starts to lower himself down on the stone step beside me. At the shocked look on my face, Chris manages a sheepish grin and says, "I'm not gonna lie. I need a friend." He pauses, nodding at the journal in my lap. "You looked like you do, too."

Huh. Guess I do.

* * *

**Entry 6**

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

Layne doesn't mind when Plovert starts sitting with us, because she's more than glad to prove those dear friends at Westchester-Briarwood Academy wrong: She was not Insane Layne and her new green and blue braces were _not_ the cause of people running away everytime she approached them with a petition to save Mrs Lammington from being fired. Aside from the fact that the janitor was named after her favorite desert, Layne held a fixation for the old soul, for some reason unknown to me.

Oh well, to each her own.

"Hi, Plovert!" Layne greets. (Or... spits. As her braces needs some getting used to, and Layne just... isn't getting used to it.)

Plovert smiles (grimaces) and took a seat (started to fall to the floor but the chair stopped him) next to me. "So... this is where you guys sit."

Yeah, Layne nods. "Where did you use to sit?"

Plovert shrugs and stabs his sandwich with a plastic fork. "Oh, nowhere special. Only over there." I follow his finger to where, in the very middle of the cafeteria and where God seemed to shine a a stream of heavenly golden light on them—no, wait. It's only Allie Rose messing with the spotlights—to where Cam Fisher, Massie Block, Kemp Hurley and the rest of their posse sit.

"Oh," I say.

**

* * *

Entry 7

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

Cam Fisher stops glancing at me almost as soon as he started. Maybe he decides I'm not worth saving, as he was so fond of doing two years ago.

I feel a strange sense of loss.

**

* * *

Entry 8

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

Lying down on my bed, Chris Plovert throws the soccer ball into the air and catches it with his right arm. I try not to blurt out the fact that a) since he broke his leg, Cam Fisher basically booted him out until next season, b) this affects his social status in more ways you can damage Massie Block's hair (if you could afford to, of course) and c) Chris Plovert probably knows already. And it probably hits him hard, too, since he was one of the people who used to swipe Krispy Kreme from Broken-Arm Barney and laughed.

"Chris Plo—" I try to say, but Chris playfully bumps my head with his ball.

"Quit calling me by my full name. You're so weird."

My eyebrows crinkle in confusion. "But—eighth grade. Massie Block's new rules... It's scrawled all over The Wa—"

This time, Chris' hands cover my mouth, and _this time_, he laughs. "Weirdo," he says again.

I accept it with a nod and smile from underneath his palms, because he didn't swipe my hair away from my cheek and emphasize on my name, Claire (like how Cam used to). He didn't smile and kiss me over the counter, sneaking me extra whipped cream (like how Derek used to). Chris laughs and gives me a nickname.

Like a friend would.

--

_Claire, it has been a month and yet you still have not update anything. Yes, I am proud of your personal growth and how you feel as if you do not need to confide in this journal as much._

_But please remember, you are being graded._

_Ms Kinkle_

* * *

** Entry 9

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

Derek turns the card over so it reads '_We're closed, come back tomorrow!'_. Catching my eye, he gives a little wave and a smile.

Chris pulls me across the street, farther and farther away from Derek's café, but I don't feel as lonely when I return the wave to him.

* * *

**Entry 10

* * *

**

_Dear Diary,_

I feel that the chances of this diary possibly helping the Tomahawks win the match of the season ten to one. Because a) it's leather-bound with a hard magnetic clasp, therefore providing b) a possible distraction for star goalie of the St Caliber Bobcats, Luke Norman if her were to get hit on the head by this because c) the Tomahawks are losing out badly.

Chris rests a warning hand on my arm and leans forward, thoughtfully analyzing the game. His two feet tap against cement and I can't help but wonder if by hanging out too much with me, has Chris caught onto my lack of sanity?

After all, Cam Fisher _did_ offer Chris a spot back on the team, but one glance at me and another at Cam Fisher's awaiting, impatient _I'm too cool for this so back of or you'll ruine my aura of coolness_ stare, Chris said one word: No.

The Bobcats score yet another goal, and the crowd falls silent as Layne, complete with TPC-certified pompoms cheers them on.

Layne Abeley, loser-turned-cheerleader after only a month after signing the "Let Braces be a Brace to Your Social Life!" petition Chace Flowers, longtime retainer lover was handing out to diminish the 'only cool people can be cheerleaders', 'only stoners can lean against lockers', 'only soccer stalkers can follow Cam Fisher around', and 'only janitors can have access to the broom closet' rule Massie Block has scrawled in her name (and green eyeliner) on The Wall Beside the Loser's Lockers ever since eighth grade.

Now, Layne is a rebellious cheerleader, Kemp Hurley now joins Jeremy Goldstein in their enlightening conversations of "_Duuuuude, I totally sawr it _happen_, man. Dat's coo_.", and Massie Block and Cam Fisher have a new place to makeout every Friday during free period.

But I'm cool with that. Chris and I exchange glances and laugh, cheering along with Layne.

I have a reason to be.

* * *

_Congratulations, Claire. You got a B-_

_Ms. Kinkle_

* * *

_Fin_

--

**And there you go! Never thought I'd actually finish writing this, as you would not believe the many times I open up a document only to close it again without writing anything. Except maybe adding a 'the'. But that doesn't count, does it ?**

**Hope it lives up to its prequels, but I definitely had fun with this. Review, sil vous plait?**

**(Oh yes: I do not own The Clique, **_**Animal Farm **_**by George Orwell, Twizzlers, those Relient K lyrics you see up there OR San Remo pasta : D )**


End file.
